


The Leech and his Patient

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: The Scarlet Letter - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Chillingsdale, Dark, Dubious Consent, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Religious Guilt, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, messed up shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-22 10:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21300797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: I don’t know where all this came from… But anyway, The Scarlet Letter has long been in the public domain, which means copyright on the text has long expired and the work belongs to the “public”, so no one can stop me. And since, unlike these characters, I don’t believe in an afterlife, I’m assuming Nathaniel Hawthorne probably won’t come haunt me or punish me or whatever… (In all seriousness, though, I warned for non-con even though consent in this fic is-at best-dubious and unclear in the character's thoughts and recollections, which isn't real consent. If that or anything else in this messed up story is difficult for you, then please spare yourself and don't read it.)
Relationships: Roger Chillingworth/Arthur Dimmesdale
Kudos: 18





	The Leech and his Patient

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know where all this came from… But anyway, The Scarlet Letter has long been in the public domain, which means copyright on the text has long expired and the work belongs to the “public”, so no one can stop me. And since, unlike these characters, I don’t believe in an afterlife, I’m assuming Nathaniel Hawthorne probably won’t come haunt me or punish me or whatever… (In all seriousness, though, I warned for non-con even though consent in this fic is-at best-dubious and unclear in the character's thoughts and recollections, which isn't real consent. If that or anything else in this messed up story is difficult for you, then please spare yourself and don't read it.)

Arthur woke with a shudder. He opened his eyes and kicked weakly at the bedclothes, which were sweat-damp and twisted around his legs like the claws of some demon. Something was wrong—hideously wrong, worse than it had been in years. But for a moment his mind remained blank. His thoughts felt confused, hazy. Absurdly, he pictured the close and sooty air around a fireplace.

Then memory flooded him like ice water. He groaned, remembering Roger and the sordid, sinful things they had done. Arthur covered his face in his shame. His breathing quickened, causing the old pain to scorch through his chest. He shifted his hand down to his heart. Merciful heavens, was any man ever as wicked or as miserable as he was? And Roger—oh, he could not look his friend in the face after last night. Friend, tempter, tormentor… It was too horrible.

It was Roger who had initiated him into the sin of cities of the plains. Arthur had been dreadfully ill sometime after midnight. He was forced to call for his friend, in between hacking coughs and a cramp so bad in his chest, it ached to breathe. Roger had come to his bedside, soothed him with cheerful words and a draught of willow bark and other herbs. He sat by him until the pain subsided. The strong hand on his arm, and then on the small of his back, seemed so comforting. And Arthur was so tired. Pain and weariness made him pliant—blinded him to the wicked madness that gripped his friend. Later, once the veil was finally ripped from before his eyes, Arthur acquiesced. Perhaps he, too, was mad. He was horrified, but there was pain in Roger’s touch—in being pressed down, and breeched, and stretched to burning like the lowest of whores. Perhaps, in one bleary moment of self-hate, that further sin had felt like punishment. For a few hateful minutes, he’d taken pleasure in throwing away what remained of his rotted soul. But that was all madness. Surely he would burn for this, as for his other sins? He deserved to burn in this world as well as the next—to be a public warning against temptation. To think that his poor, dear Hester was made a pariah, while he was _feted_ despite his weakness…

Because he had been weak in the face of temptation. He must be honest, at least with himself. It was neither force nor drugs that made him yield. Roger had cajoled him with his serpent’s tongue. Something low, animalistic, had woken in Arthur, and responded. He could not deny the spine-tingling pleasure as Roger hit some exquisite nerve with each thrust, though he cringed to think of it now—to remember spilling his hot seed against the scratchy bedclothes. Roger had climaxed inside him, as one should with a wife. Had he been sent to tempt Arthur? There were people in Boston who whispered as much. But Arthur knew better. He knew he was not the saint people thought him. He was as far from that glorious height as the worm crawling in the earth. To think he was supposed to preach again in three days’ time, at the Sabbath. Were it not another sin, he would walk through the town, past marsh and beach, throw himself into the bay, and be drowned. But he couldn’t. Perhaps it was his punishment to live knowing what he was: a corrupting force, a cancer in what should have been a shining beacon of holiness. That shining city on a hill? The new Jerusalem? He deserved no part of it. Yet he was too cowardly to confess and suffer public scorn. All he could do was wish, morbidly, for God to strike him down and send him to judgement.


End file.
